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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808225">Reverie</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre'>Stairre</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Also this whole thing is Drift fantasising about getting a happy ending, Background War, Canon Compliant, Demisexual Character, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Masturbation, Mentioned Use of Prescribed Medicinal Drug, Pining, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Sticky Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Transformers Spark Bonds, Unfortunately for him this fic is</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:54:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29808225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift's spent a long time in love with the idea of being in love. No one's yet ever managed to cultivate such a relationship with him, gone too soon, to death or worse, but - maybe with Wing, things could be different. </p><p>---</p><p>Or: alone in his hab in New Crystal City, Drift fantasises about getting his happy ending.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Drift | Deadlock/Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Reverie</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>Reverie</b>
</p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p>Drift curls on his side on the berth in Wing’s guest room, shutters his optics, and listens to the gentle clattering of Wing cleaning up his kitchen, trying to keep quiet for Drift.</p><p> </p><p>He’d retired to recharge early, claiming a processor ache, and he’s got enough old helm wounds that still sometimes linger in the form of transient migraines that Wing didn’t disbelieve him for a moment, only reminded him of the heavy-duty sensor-net dampening chips prescribed by Redline to him that are still sitting on the side, untouched. Drift… knows himself, and even if his helm ache had been real this time, the likelihood of him plugging one in is very low. Addictive personality; Drift is more than aware he has one.</p><p> </p><p>He might have lied about the processor ache, but – contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t have any nefarious plans forming in his mind. He just needs some quiet time to himself, a little bit of space from Wing, after… yeah. After <em>earlier.</em></p><p> </p><p>Not that Wing had done anything nefarious, either – Drift is pretty certain that Wing doesn’t have a cruel strut in his frame – but during their sparring match in the afternoon, Wing had pinned Drift to the ground, which was not unusual, but now apparently enough time has passed for Drift to have a, er, <em>different </em>reaction than annoyance at being bested.</p><p> </p><p>He’d snarled and snapped as usual, Wing laughing softly and letting him up, telling him the ways he got it right, and all the ways he could improve his technique, and he doesn’t think Wing noticed that Drift had been stiller than usual, his frame frozen by the sudden ping of his interfacing array in his HUD, asking for permission to online. He’d covered it up with grouchiness, but – Wing is now firmly filed into the folder that holds the small selection of mecha Drift’s ever been attracted to, and it’s disconcerting that it happened without Drift being consciously aware of it.</p><p> </p><p>Drift listens as Wing finishes up, hearing the low hum of the lights cut into silence as Wing turns them off, the sound of his steps on the tiles of his home, the slide of his hab suite door closing for the night. It’s not <em>late, </em>but it’s late enough by now that no one would shutter an optic if they saw the lights of the home go dim from the outside.</p><p> </p><p>Drift rolls over on the berth, onto his back, and imagines the sounds of Wing sliding his swords into the weapons rack in his hab, the way his armour plates might clack a little against each other as he first sits and then arranges his frame to lie on his berth. He can’t actually hear it, of course, Wing’s home has thicker walls than that, but for just a moment he imagines hearing the humming of internal systems winding down, next to him, a quiet shared intimacy.</p><p> </p><p><em>Weak, </em>Drift curses himself, <em>again. </em></p><p> </p><p>Drift’s loved, and been loved, but he’s never <em>fallen in love. </em>He’s never had the chance to, any time he thinks he might be <em>feeling something </em>always cut short with tragedy. No one he loves has ever stayed, through death or something worse, and –</p><p> </p><p>Drift still falls into that trap, over and over, despite knowing better. Drift has never been able to fall out of love with the idea of being <em>wanted</em>, not just for his frame, but for his spark. He’s still, even now, battle-scarred and energon-soaked, in love with love.</p><p> </p><p>And because he’s weak, his hand drifts down to palm his interface panel, and when his fingers touch it, he imagines that it’s Wing’s fingers instead.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been so long since he let anyone else touch him – Drift had almost forgotten what it’s like to <em>want </em>someone to touch him. Down in the Dead End, interface wasn’t about pleasure; it was about <em>power. </em>And Deadlock had been too high-ranking amongst the Decepticons to be safe letting others into his berth, even if he’d wanted to. Desire’s never come quickly to him, and Drift doesn’t think he’s ever self-serviced to the idea of a stranger. A stranger’s face never gets him revved up, it <em>has </em>to be someone he knows, someone he cares for.</p><p> </p><p>Drift turns back onto his side, curling his legs up, his hand still between them, pressing hard against his panel. He pre-emptively mutes his vocaliser. It seems that he’s doing this, then. Self-servicing to the fantasy of Wing while the real Wing recharges not two rooms away, thankfully behind decent enough walls that he won’t hear. It’s a bit embarrassing, really, but even though he knows the chance is slim, the idea of Wing hearing something and walking in to find Drift with his fingers shoved up his valve is still a thought that induces a sharp edge of heat.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t think he wants it, not for <em>real,</em> but… he’s played around with <em>getting caught </em>role-play scenes before, and they always scratch something deep inside him. Something that balances on the knife-edge of Drift’s romantic fantasy – that a fictional Conjunx might come home early, find him writhing in want, and invite themselves to join in, maybe even punishing him for starting without them… Something something possessiveness, something something unconditional love, something something having a home and place he’s welcome in and a lover he <em>wants </em>to bend for, because they won’t make it about <em>power </em>when it should be about <em>pleasure.</em></p><p> </p><p>Drift shutters his optics and summons Wing’s handsome face to his mind, his bright gold optics intense and focused the way he is during spars, plucked from his memory files and tinted with a little imagination to give them a heat, a softness. He slides his panel back, and – it would be easy, so easy, to ping his spike to pressurise and self-service that way, but…</p><p> </p><p>He sends the command to lock his spike offline and primes his valve instead, charge heating his array and lubricant welling through the mesh walls, dribbling onto his fingers as he cups his entrance. A short moan goes unheard, his mouth moving but his vocaliser muted.</p><p> </p><p>Drift presses a finger inside, then two, impatient and unafraid of the sudden stretch and he forces his entrance ring to cycle open wider than it wants to, digging into the first caliper with his fingertips, heat coiling as he pushes his two fingers in and moves them apart and then together, again and again, loosening his channel. But fingers aren’t ever as long as a spike, and by the time he’s got his digits as far in as they’ll go, the second interior caliper at his fingertips and widening under their presses, he knows that he’ll need something a bit more to overload, if his interior node is out of reach.</p><p> </p><p>He trembles on the berth, then lowers his other hand to join the first, rubbing at his pulsing and bright anterior node shamelessly, imagining that it’s Wing’s dark hands pressing there instead. Pleasure rocks his frame, but he’s spent enough time in barracks shared with dozens of other mecha to know how to keep his frame’s instinctual flexes and shivers barely noticeable. His armour doesn’t even rattle.</p><p> </p><p>Drift cycles a deep, careful vent, adding a third finger with one hand and rubbing his own lubricant over his throbbing node with the other. The stretch is wonderful, maybe it truly has been too long, self-service is easier with a spike but he doesn’t want his own spike he wants Wing’s –</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, his fantasy Wing, the one gazing down at him with lust and love behind his optical shutters, looms over him, hands pinning Drift’s shoulder pauldrons down, and Drift freezes in place. His fingers turn briefly into a spike – what would it look like? White? Black? How many ribs? What pattern would the bio-lights make? – and Wing is pressing into him, forcing his valve to open around him, not painful but a bit rough, the way Drift likes it, claiming, and Drift <em>wants – !</em></p><p> </p><p>He shudders, his fingers hooking into his valve walls, pressing harshly into the sensor bundles, his anterior node aching as he rubs against it. His vents gasp, low and hissing, not enough to be heard in the quiet of the night.</p><p> </p><p><em>Wing, </em>Drift mouths, silent, squeezing his optical shutters tightly enough to hurt.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses before he picks up his fantasy again, surrendering to the version his imagination has simulated for him. They’re… somewhere. Not this room, a different room, one with a large berth meant for sharing, the other details fuzzy and undefined except for the fact that it is made for two mecha. The tiles on the walls and the scents of fading incense and sword oil and something that's just so unmistakeably <em>Wing</em> in the air tell him this is Wing’s home, though.</p><p> </p><p>Wing presses him down into the berth – Drift twists his fingers inside his valve and clenches hard around them – and hilts himself inside him – Drift presses as far back as he can reach, making up for his untouched interior node by gently twisting the anterior one – and Drift is tipping his head back, moaning – unheard in the dark room, his vocaliser muted.</p><p> </p><p>Wing rocks into him – Drift moves his hips lightly, pressing into his hand again and again – and then murmurs, records of his voice samples processed and strung together into something he’s never actually said, “Open up your chest. Let me into your spark.”</p><p> </p><p>Drift chokes on nothing, freezes in place a moment, heat burning through him and coiled up tight in his array, and then his fantasy Wing’s hands are stroking his chest, and Drift is letting him pry it open. In the dark room, spark light spills out, ghosting along the wall because Drift is actually on his side, curled up, not laid out on his back beneath Wing with his most vulnerable and private component bared.</p><p> </p><p>Drift shivers in place, his own fantasy wrong-footing him for a moment. This is – when he first realised his processor had refiled Wing into the <em>attracted to </em>category, he hadn’t – he hadn’t known the mech had burrowed himself in <em>this deep. </em></p><p> </p><p>Spark interface is… it’s bare, it’s vulnerable, it’s the most trust you can ever give another. Most Conjunxes don’t do it, let alone anyone else. It’s just… you just <em>don’t. </em>It’s so <em>intimate</em>. No, it’s not just intimate – it’s <em>permanent.</em></p><p> </p><p>Sharing your spark with another… you’ll <em>know </em>each other, deeper than the deepest processing level, and it sticks, a little. Do it enough times, and a spark bond forms, and then you’re never without each other. Drift… has fantasised, before, about loving someone enough to take them into his spark, make them his own, him being made their own, but… they were never more than vague dreams, smudgy ideas attached to a shadowed and undefined lover, even Drift’s romantic spark finding them almost frightening to behold.</p><p> </p><p>But he does it now, fingers still inside his valve, against his node, his chest plates open in the cool room, thankfully hidden by his arms, mostly. His spark is a bright white-gold, he can see the reflection of it on the walls, and he shutters his optics again – he can’t remember when he opened them – to the sight of Wing leaning down, his own chest armour slid open, his spark the same white-gold because Drift doesn’t know enough about what different sparks look like to picture it any other way, and he's pushing into Drift. Old memory files ping back what it felt like to be loved, some mix of Gasket, Megatron, Soundwave, some other, older lovers –</p><p> </p><p>Drift overloads.</p><p> </p><p>His frame tenses on the berth, his valve spills lubricant everywhere, coating his fingers even more, and his spark crackles and pulses visibly, the light brightening for a moment in its reflection.</p><p> </p><p>“Good mech,” Wing praises him, and Drift shivers and whimpers silently and it’s only when he onlines his optics to the dark room again, his chest plates automatically locking shut with a sub-processing safety feature, that he realises that Wing isn’t actually real.</p><p> </p><p>He trembles on the berth for several minutes, his slick cooling in a puddle around him, sticking in his finger joints. <em>What in the deepest Pit was <strong>that?</strong></em></p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p>Drift can’t stop thinking about it.</p><p> </p><p>He begs off sparring by claiming his helm ache hasn’t gone away, and this time he even lets Wing plug in one of Redline’s chips, guiltily enjoying the way Wing helps him back to his berth – cleaned, <em>obviously,</em> with the ozone smell long since drawn out by the room's ventilation systems – because the chips make Drift feel drowsy, and a bit floaty.</p><p> </p><p>Wing’s face and hands are gentle and Drift soaks it all up, and if he stares at Wing’s chest-plates as he’s helped down, Wing isn’t even going to notice because Drift’s head is level with his chest when sitting down, so it obviously isn’t even Drift’s <em>fault.</em></p><p> </p><p>Drift wakes up near evening time, and his head feels empty, clear. Apparently he might have even had a helm ache, though probably not one bad enough to justify the heavy-duty chips. He hadn’t even noticed.</p><p> </p><p>He sits up, swings his legs to the side, stares at his thigh armour, his pedes, the floor. Then he gets up, joins Wing for a meal, avoiding talking, making mostly grunts to Wing’s light chatter, and retires early again. He has a hot shower in the wash-rack, listens to Wing in the other room, and doesn’t fall into recharge until the hour is late and he’s certain Wing is already asleep.</p><p> </p><p>The entire time, his mind swings between refreshingly empty, and stuffed too full of things that both intrigue and frighten him.</p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p>He’s doing it again. He knows he should know better by now, but –</p><p> </p><p>Wing’s in recharge, it’s so late it’s early, and Drift is putting his hands on his panel again, thinking about Wing.</p><p> </p><p>He sends a command to lock his chest-plates firmly <em>shut. </em>He may be doing this again, but he doesn’t need an exact repeat of last time. He palms his array, the panel slid back, cupping his valve and pressing fingers inside, his anterior node pulsing against his digits as he rubs it, smearing the welling lubricant there.</p><p> </p><p>Wing is leaning over him again, and this time Drift really is on his back, his knees raised, pedes planted flat on the berth, legs spread open. If the real Wing were to walk in now, there’d be no hiding what he’s doing.</p><p> </p><p>Drift presses his fingers inside, and behind his shuttered optics it’s Wing again, his weight heavy on top of Drift, his hot spike hard inside Drift’s valve channel, filling him up. Drift’s vents hitch as his fantasy Wing frags him into the berth, barely noticing that it’s again that fuzzy shared room, the berth big enough for two.</p><p> </p><p>“You’d look so beautiful kindling,” Wing whispers to him, and Drift’s optics fly open.</p><p> </p><p>The dark ceiling above holds no shadow of Wing, of course, but – <em>kindling. </em>Primus. <em>Primus.</em></p><p> </p><p>But now that the thought has been planted in his head, Drift can’t stop his imagination from taking it and running. Kindling is – it’s their species’ rarest form of reproduction, so rare that it was never even considered a viable answer to the pre-war anxiety over the hot spots going dark.</p><p> </p><p>When sparks are shared, shared enough for a bond to form – and already that is asking <em>a lot </em>of people – there is the slightest, smallest chance for a new-spark to be kindled within. And by <em>small chance, </em>he means that there haven’t been six-hundred kindled mecha over the course of their entire species’ history. Rare enough to be practically mythical.</p><p> </p><p>But now Drift can’t stop thinking about it. And, hey. It’s a fantasy, right? Putting fantastical things into fantasises is kind of the whole point.</p><p> </p><p>So he imagines, scarcely believing himself, his valve clenching on his fingers, a warmth in his spark chamber. Another spark, orbiting his own. Drift’s got a spark in the seventieth percentile for frequency output, above average, and a new-spark would attach itself to the highest frequency spark there, so between him and Wing, he’d have a good chance, he thinks, of being the one whose chamber the new-spark would kindle in.</p><p> </p><p>And then… his frame would begin to change, protocols coming online, drawing from his reserves, his internal systems shifting about to make room for the formation of the gestational chamber, sitting in his abdomen, attached to the back of his valve channel. In time, transfluid would be absorbed, not a single drop escaping his hungry valve, and it <em>would </em>be hungry, protocols screaming for more substance to draw into the gestational chamber, he’d be revved up near constantly, begging for his bond-mate to fill him up, again and again... For <em>Wing </em>to come and thrust into him, keep him heavy and full, Drift <em>begging </em>for every touch and Wing delivering because they’d been <em>blessed – </em></p><p> </p><p>His protoform would be stripped of its metal reserves, he’d have to refuel with supplements near constantly, Wing would – would be <em>feeding him, </em>tilting energon into his mouth as he stroked at Drift’s abdominal plating, the armour plates unlatching and the soft protoform swelling beneath to make room for the growing chamber… and inside that chamber, sentio metallico would be swirling into being, ready for the spark to descend from Drift’s photonic crystal, once it grew strong enough to hold stable on its own –</p><p> </p><p>Drift moans, soundlessly, digging his fingers into his valve, rocking desperately into his hand. He imagines the detachment, how worried he and Wing would be at that critical moment, how everything would turn out okay, Drift’s gestational chamber fully functional, accepting the new-spark eagerly. It would settle there, in his heavy abdomen, and build itself its own photonic crystal, its laser core, and then the chamber would harden around it, the whole thing becoming an egg, the bright spark inside bobbing in its own sentio metallico…</p><p> </p><p>And – and Drift would turn over in the berth one day, one night, some time when it was ready, and he would slide his armour open, knowing by some mysterious coding that the time was right, and the chamber-turned-egg would shift inside him, would unlatch from its housing, and would gently roll onto the berth topper, right into Drift’s bent arm coming up to cradle it.</p><p> </p><p>Wing would – where would he be? Drift thinks of Wing behind him, a line of heat down his back, both of them watching the emergence, Wing’s arm stretching over Drift’s side to place gentle fingers against the egg’s armoured shell. Or maybe he would be opposite, facing Drift, their egg rolling between them, safe in their shared embrace.</p><p> </p><p>Drift’s vents hitch as he clamps his thighs tightly together, partially squashing his hand but what does it matter? His array is zinging with charge, his HUD full of systems redlining, and behind his optical shutters Wing’s reverent, loving face as he cradles their egg, his EM field merging at the edges with Drift’s, both of them looking down at the innocent new life between them, <em>proof </em>that Drift can bring more than death and destruction to everything he touches, everyone he loves –</p><p> </p><p>They would put their egg in a nest of metal parts, high-quality ingots maybe, and watch as first the delicate internal systems began to form from the starting amount of sentio metallico, and then as the heat of the spark rose, it would lick up the extra metal, turning it molten, and they would feed it more and more over days as their egg turned everything around it to more sentio metallico, their new-spark building his frame.</p><p> </p><p>And then their creation would blink into life one day, and he and Wing would love him, be mentors to him, the whole Circle of Light and all the knights and even Dai Atlas would come and celebrate, and their species doesn’t have a juvenile stage, but Drift’s family unit would still grow one larger, and he would have someone else to love – someone who would know <em>peace </em>because New Crystal City is no bad place to bring new life into, not like the gutters of Drift’s own youth, and maybe Drift could build a life here, could <em>keep </em>a life here –</p><p> </p><p>Could have <em>Wing – </em></p><p> </p><p>With a low crackle of charge, Drift overloads, panting steam from his vents into the dark and silent room. His new-spark shatters into nothing but fantasy.</p><p> </p><p>–</p><p> </p><p>“Are you all right?” Wing asks at the breakfast table. “Did you recharge well? How’s your processor ache? It's been hurting you a few days, now.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m <em>fine,” </em>Drift snaps, armour plates ruffling. Under the table, he digs his fingers into the seams of his knee joint.</p><p> </p><p>Wing tilts his head, but lets it go, patient and kind, and so,<em> so</em> accepting of all of Drift’s defensiveness and snappishness. Drift… looks away, unable to meet those golden optics, a little ashamed at the roughness he just treated Wing with. It’s just – automatic. How can he fantasise about loving Wing when he doesn’t even give the poor mech basic politeness in real life?</p><p> </p><p>“Up for sparring today?” Wing asks.</p><p> </p><p>Drift nods his head stiffly, craving and dreading the idea both. Because Wing will be helping his sword play, helping his footwork, will adjust his stance and move his arms and <em>touch him</em>, and –</p><p> </p><p>Wing isn’t <em>his</em> to touch.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And then canon happens. Sorry, Drift.</p><p>I can also be found on <a href="https://stairre.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. Come and say hello!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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